


in dreams i am but a passerby

by sannlykke



Category: Thunderbolt Fantasy 東離劍遊紀 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: ...like the river that has carried away fallen flowers, spring has gone.And when I look again, one is heaven—the other, only earth.





	in dreams i am but a passerby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/gifts).



> > Crows caw as the moon descends, and frost fills the sky;  
> The fishermen’s lights illuminate my restless sleep, between the river and Maple Bridge.  
> Outside Gusu City lies Cold Mountain Temple,  
> Where midnight brings the rumble of bell-song to my ferry.  
> \- Zhang Ji (c. 715 - c. 779 C.E.), “A Night Mooring by Maple Bridge”

“Did you know,” says Ryofu Setsujin, amidst the smoke of sandalwood incense and the deeper, fuller scent emanating from his pipe, “that they call this place Heaven on Earth?”

“A stupid name,” Setsumusho replies, almost instantly. The wooden boards creak and groan underneath his feet as the ship moves sluggishly downriver. Though not yet close to nightfall, the heavy mist surrounding them is enough to make it seem so. “You can barely see anything outside, Ryo. At this rate we will never make it to the appointment on time.”

“Are you worried?”

“No—“

“Then believe me, we will.”

Setsumusho watches the thief lie down on the mattress, tendrils of smoke swirling and dissipating from his lips as he closes his eyes. Though he looks contented for now, in a few hours he’d have Setsumusho beating up yet another barkeep or minor official in search for another fantastical trinket locked away in a safe somewhere. It’s not the kind of lifestyle he’d have thought himself having even a few years ago, still deeply locked in the world of destroying and destroying and nothing more.

Maybe it’s not so different helping someone else steal and lie, though he’s not killed but once since. In any case, having someone to distract himself with in the process makes it slightly less lonely.

—When has he ever cared about such, well, perhaps it’s the wine or the smoke, or the dizziness he’s starting to feel from the choppy waters.

“You should lie down, Musho.” Ryo smiles up at him and sets down his pipe, though his eyes remain closed. “I’d rather not have to switch rooms if you happen to get sick.”

And because Setsumusho is no good arguing with anything other than a weapon, he chooses to let it slide.

 

 

It is indeed a silly name, Setsumusho thinks. There is no heaven, and not on earth, and certainly not for a killer or a thief. The black tiles covering the city are beautiful, it is true, and so are the limestone gardens and winding streams, and the rooms of the palace Ryo had somehow swindled the local nobles into letting him stay the night.

Those do not seem to interest a thief as much, however; one cannot steal a garden, though at this point Setsumusho is sure Ryo would somehow succeed if he’d try. Setsumusho himself is as uninterested in the landscape as he is the minutiae of Ryo’s dealings, preferring still to be the brute force behind Ryo’s sweet words. He’s seen enough in his wanderings to know that no beauty can go unmarred for long.

But when Setsumusho wakes and sees Ryo sitting by the window, his face half-illuminated by the soft morning light, it is not so bad a view after all.

“Good morning,” he says. Ryo turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised, but Setsumusho can immediately tell he is in good spirits.

“Who’s kidnapped the great Setsumusho and replaced him with a fake, I wonder.”

“What?”

“Quite unlike you to greet anyone this early, or at all,” Ryo replies, all teasing. Setsumusho frowns, sitting down across him. “Ah, don’t get mad. I’ve got good news for us, Musho.”

“That never means anything good.”

Ryo leans forward, lightly poking Setsumusho’s nose with his pipe. “I’m wounded you think so.”

“Cut that out.”

“There will be a tour of the palace in the afternoon,” Ryo continues, ignoring his other protests. “The royal entourage has arrived from the capital to tour the temple. Oh, of course, I will be there too. We will be done with this place in no time, as you’ve already helped me locate the jeweled Buddha from that dear old man last night—but! I will need you to be a distraction.”

Setsumusho stares at him. “You want… _me_ , to be a distraction.”

Ryo sizes him up, with a smile on his lips that could only mean something truly unfortunate is about to happen. “Not as yourself, of course. Why did you think I had to sneak you in last night? Even the lowliest of guards would know and fear the notorious killer Setsumusho. Go wash up, and I’ll show you what to do.”

 

 

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

“Few people know what I look like, Musho. This will be safer.”

Setsumusho grimaces at the mirror, though it is Ryofu Setsujin’s face who looks back at him. An exact copy, down to the softness of his hair and the his unlined face. There is no weight to this mask that melds seamlessly into his face, but that alone does not stop Setsumusho from finding fault with the plan at hand. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“Is my face not handsome enough for you to wear?”

“…Ryo, please just stop talking.”

—At least at that very moment Ryo chooses to look away to rummage in his belongings, and thus miss the brief spread of heat across Setsumusho’s cheeks. He’s never seen Ryo drunk before, and even when he has had more alcohol in his system than Setsumusho can stomach his face never changes to that particular shade of drunk-red that must’ve been similar to what Setsumusho is feeling now. This must be some sort of farce to embarrass him in lieu of an actual quest.

Though it is true that _his_ own portrait has been reproduced many times over, spread across the land like some sickness waiting to be eradicated. Setsumusho has never minded, having been able to easily dispose of all matter of law enforcement that came after him, but journeying with Ryo is different. A master thief cannot have his true face shown to the world while it knows what he is.

“It will be boring, of course, but you will stay here and pose as me.” Ryo smiles, tapping on his pipe as Setsumusho sits, observing the intricately-made fake of the thief’s pipe in his hands. “In case they come checking, they will see that I cannot possibly have been doing anything out of the ordinary.”

“Not a difficult job then, I take it.”

“Physical treasures are the easiest to steal, Musho.” Ryo leans down, brushing long hair aside. His words are a breeze on Setsumusho’s ear. “It would do you good to remember that.”

 

 

Being relegated to sentry duty is not something Setsumusho hasn’t experienced before, but after a while of quiet he feels himself itching to go outside. The view outside the window is of a winding river immediately below, and of a temple in the distant other side, the peaks barely surmounting the fog that’s started up again. The city is quiet, and so is the river, and the mountains that remind him of the dojo from long ago.

A servant had come by to take away the empty plates, and Setsumusho had just sat and looked away while he’d done it, all the while feeling his gaze. Were Ryo here, he would’ve made a joke, perhaps played around in a way that comes so unnervingly natural to him. There’s no guarantee anything that comes out of Setsumusho’s mouth would sound remotely like Ryo, after all—

_—I could just leave, if I want._

Though not the first time he’s found himself thinking about this, Setsumusho turns the pipe in his hands, thinking hard. He’s only beholden to Ryofu Setsujin for the money and shelter the thief provides him in exchange for his services. It’s not much, but the past two years have been the longest time Setsumusho has gone without ever having to think seriously about providing for himself.

He _could_ go back, if this bores him—there is no contract to sign for thieves like Ryo. Back to the cycle of seeking out and killing and collecting the rewards, his twin blades once again bringing death upon those lofty swordsmen that have yet to be exterminated. Setsumusho has never really gone hungry with his assassin’s trade before, but…

_”Then believe me.”_

In all his travels he’s never wanted for food and shelter, but companionship is something else altogether. Ryo might be conniving and annoying, trying to get a reaction out of Setsumusho at every turn…three years ago he would not have stood for anyone doing this to him, but somehow the thief had already found his way into a position where Setsumusho had never let anyone, not even his master or fellow disciples, enter before.

It’s not as if Setsumusho is allergic to talk, quite the opposite; Ryo would listen to him talk about the sword patiently, and sometimes not so patiently, but he’d always have something thoughtful to say. Setsumusho could not say the same of the corpses or sniveling gamblers he’d spent the better part of the last decade with.

_—If I leave, would life go on as normal for him?_

Setsumusho’s singular prerogative has always been himself, honing his skills, living his life the only way someone with a cursed name like himself could live. Even this life, strange as it is, had been mostly uneventful up until now.

The bells—he hears them now, striking midday.

Setsumusho stands up and walks towards the ornate mirror, staring into Ryofu Setsujin’s eyes. He touches his face, feeling his own even as his fingers touch skin smoother than his own, the angles all different. This imitation of Ryo’s face seems softer than it really is, but Setsumusho can scarce find any fault with its details. Perhaps the eyes—the difference in expression is palpable, after knowing Ryo for so long.

He brings a finger to his lips, surprisingly soft, and turns away from the mirror. If Ryo were here, he’d surely laugh at Setsumusho for being embarrassed, but at least that would be the end of it, he hopes.

 

 

“I’m flattered you’re still wearing it.”

“Shut up, Ryo, didn’t you tell me not to take it off?”

Ryo laughs, tapping his pipe to his head. In his other hand, wrapped under layers of cloth, is the jeweled Buddha—or at least, that’s what Ryo had told him. “You’ve exceeded my expectations, Setsumusho. One would think you’d ignore my request for your own comfort. I wouldn’t have begrudged you that, you know.”

“…You’re just making fun of me now, aren’t you.”

“Please, _that_ expression doesn’t go well with my face.” He reaches for Setsumusho, but he shies away.

Nightfall has brought them back to the boat, away from the commotion going on in the city. Setsumusho had even found difficulty finding his way back here through the stampede of horses and men, past the tall maples that line both banks of the river. But for once it is particularly easy to become just another face in the crowd, without someone shrieking for his blood.

Unreasonable, really. _He_ could pick Ryo out of even ten thousands of faces.

A crow caws outside the tiny window, though it’s already too dark to see outside. Ryo stops, drawing his hand back, and an emotion that Setsumusho could not place flickers across his eyes before it settles back into a smile again. “Oh? You’ve grown attached—”

“Nonsense,” Setsumusho replies quickly, pulling the bag off. He throws it back at Ryo, who catches it deftly with one hand. “You could’ve told me sooner.”

“And risk the whole operation?”

“I’m sure you’d have come out unscathed anyway,” Setsumusho says. He picks up the cup of wine already waiting for him on the table, its surface dancing with the light of the lanterns outside. “I believe in you.”

Ryo puts the bag away, humming as he lights his pipe once again. He doesn’t look at Setsumusho as he takes a deep draw, pensive in a way that he’s has never seen the thief do before. Then, as if on cue, he turns towards Setsumusho as the smoke dissipates. “You do?”

“Don’t make it sound stupid,” Setsumusho says, frowning.

“It’s not stupid.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little. One should never trust a thief, Setsumusho.”

Setsumusho raises an eyebrow. Though it’s clear Ryo is making a jape, he’s already seen firsthand that it would take more than a sword to stop the thief’s antics. “Hm. I have nothing of importance for you to steal."

“Perhaps.” He yawns, leaning back. “Not at this time, anyway.”

It is then the bell sounds, low and clear, reverberating through the city and the walls of the ferry. Setsumusho listens to it until it ends, with the currents of the river underneath filling in the intervals. Then, after the waves have subsided, a second time.

“It’s strange to strike the bell at this time of the night. Is that for the night guard?”

“A local custom,” Ryo replies. He’s playing with the Buddha statue, turning it this way and that in his hands; its jewel-encrusted exterior throws tiny bits of iridescent light across the room. “Keeping the monks awake for their midnight meditation. Though you would think a holy institution would be humble enough to live off only the barest of necessities, instead of commissioning baubles that would never benefit the common man. _Heaven_ , you see, is something you can buy.”

“So you steal to make a point.”

“I steal to continue living.” Ryo pats the space on the bed beside him, and Setsumusho yawns—he _is_ tired, and the smoke is not helping. “As one does. I steal to eat, to pay you for keeping me guard, to give me a nice warm bed at night…it is only a means to an end, though why not have fun along the way?”

“If you say so.”

He’s so tired he barely notices Ryo twirling his hair around a finger until he feels a pull on his head, and turns to see Ryo all too close and smiling. Instantly he feels his face heat up. “What…are you doing?”

“Having fun.”

“I don’t see how this is fun.”

“Your reaction says otherwise,” Ryo supplies, helpfully. Setsumusho rolls his eyes, pushing him away, but without much force. Perhaps he is drunk, though his own cup had seemed untouched. “Anyway, we should be traveling again soon, after the night ban has been lifted.”

“Mm.”

It’s impossible to be mad at him for long. Setsumusho turns, a hand touching Ryo’s hair—he’s never liked being touched, Setsumusho’s found, but this time Ryo lets him run his fingers through the silky white hair. He draws close, emboldened now—by wine or smoke or maybe the flight of whatever is left of his self-possession, taking in the scent beneath the haze.

Ryo blinks slowly, the grin never leaving his lips. “Are you angry?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“Don’t push it, Ryo.” But there is no heat in his words.

The bell strikes a third time, loud and vibrant. His fingers squeeze Ryo’s under the blanket as he listens to the reverberating notes in his chest, slow and even.

There might’ve been words exchanged then, _I’m here_ or _It’s time_ or some other sentiment entirely, but so much have Setsumusho’s eyelids drooped that he cannot make out the words on Ryo’s lips anymore. The gentle motions of the ferry beneath him are a lullaby in itself; he closes his eyes, feeling the back of Ryo’s hand warm against his cheek.

“Do you agree?”

“M-mm?”

“Heaven.”

He reaches for Ryo’s shoulder, and this time Ryo willingly moves. Somewhere along the river, along the black-tiled roofs, Ryofu Setsujin would’ve left only a wisp of smoke and his name upon the ivory walls of this city. But not just here.

_Heaven is not a place._

Setsumusho feels a smile tug at his lips. And this time, because surely Ryo cannot see in the dark, it blossoms.

“Close enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> > Outside my curtains the rain patters down, as spring comes to an end.  
> These silken covers cannot keep out the chill of early dawn.  
> In dreams I am but a passerby, and only then I may take joy in those brief moments.  
> I lean against the railings, thinking about what I have lost;  
> Separation is easy, but to meet again is difficult.  
> Like the river that has carried away fallen flowers, spring has gone.  
> And when I look again, one is heaven—the other, only earth.  
> \- Li Yu (c. 937-978), “Waves Crash Ashore”


End file.
